


Forgetting Things, Memorable Smiles, And Flowers That Dance In Your Fingers

by septemberwish



Series: The Soulwriter Series [2]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Frerard, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septemberwish/pseuds/septemberwish





	Forgetting Things, Memorable Smiles, And Flowers That Dance In Your Fingers

Sit. Blink. Breathe. Drag. Sit. Blink. Breath. Drag.

This is the turn of events for Frank Anthony Iero as he stands outside in the sharp New Jersey air.

It has been thirty years since he has attempted suicide and he is the same person excepting only the lines on his face and the smirking flecks of gray in his hair. 

It has been thirty years since he met Him. The artist, the beauty, the accused rapist, the prison definer, the man he fell in love with...

It has been thirty years since his soul has been rewritten and yet…he is the same person.

Sit. Blink. Breathe. Drag.

He drops the cigarette onto the sidewalk, where it fizzles for a moment until the man crushes it under his Chuck Taylor sneaker.

He is the same person, but he is no longer needing to survive.

No paint on his windows, no black in his hair, no eggshell white walls to protect him from the outside, he is rewritten and done with.

Yet somehow he feels the need to renew himself. And that is why he stands here in front of the lonely bookstore with its ‘READ’ sign flickering and dusty, with a key in his hand. Moments later he is unlocking the door to his old apartment, feeling the smile on his face replaced with the remembering frown.

There it is, the collage of paint in the center. The collage of love. Art. Sex. All the same, really, until he sits in the center and remembers it, the way He smiled into his mouth, the way he remembers every second and every blur and every touch and every work of fucking ART. And he begins to cry. He is forty-seven and crying so hard the world is smearing together. And then he sees it.

The book.

He stands up and picks it up, flipping through the pages carefully so that they don’t tear.

And he decides that he is ready.

He always knew he was, really.

It smells like cold and spice and shitty Halloween costumes and Frank Iero knows it is ironically perfect timing, his birthday and meeting Him again all rolled into one. Lovely thing, really.

He is carrying the book flat to his chest like a security blanket of sorts. It sets him apart from the rest, it is protection, it is a warning label. Books do that for you.   
He holds his breath, like he always does, and steps through the gate, chapped lips pressed together like a lock.

And it’s pretty, in an odd sort of way. There is no one else there, as it’s Halloween, of course, and risks should never be taken on days like this. But Frank doesn’t care.  
And then he sees Him. There are tears in Frank’s eyes and his lips are flying apart in a cry of I love you and his fingers are shaking like hell and then he holds up the book.

“I never read you the last chapter.”

So Frank sits and reads, his eyes glassed over with love.

“That's all I'm going to tell about. I could probably tell you what I did after I went home, and how I got sick and all, and what school I'm supposed to go to next fall, after I get out of here, but I don't feel like it. I really don't. That stuff doesn't interest me too much right now.”

Frank smiles slightly. It is his favourite ending in the world, after all.

“ A lot of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have here, keeps asking me if I'm going apply myself when I go back to school next September. It's such a stupid question, in my opinion. I mean how do you know what you're going to do till you do it? The answer is, you don't. I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it's a stupid question.”

He loves him, he loves him not. His fingers are a blur at the scattered flowers, plucking and falling like the tears that form in his eyes.

“D.B. isn't as bad as the rest of them, but he keeps asking me a lot of questions, too. He drove over last Saturday with this English babe that's in this new picture he's writing. She was pretty affected, but very good-looking. Anyway, one time when she went to the ladies' room way the hell down in the other wing D.B. asked me what I thought about all this stuff I just finished telling you about. I didn't know what the hell to say. If you want to know the truth, I don't know what I think about it. I'm sorry I told so many people about it. About all I know is, I sort of miss everybody I told about. Even old Stradlater and Ackley, for instance. I think I even miss that goddam Maurice. It's funny.”

The flowers are gone and torn apart like everything, really. Destroy the things you hate, He always said.

Frank opens his tragically kissed eyes and his beautifully kissed mouth and says the last sentence.

“Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”

No use missing people when they die on you all the time.


End file.
